He nodded at the cup. “Go on. Don’t waste it. You look like you need it.”
I hated that he was right. Against my better judgment, I took a sip. Cold, sweet coffee hit my tongue, caffeine sparking through my veins. My eyelids fluttered, and a sound escaped—half sigh, half groan.
Dalton’s grin went feral. “Knew it. Got the Malibu stamp of approval.”
I scowled up at him. “Not yet.”
“Yet, she says.” He started walking backward into the crowd, still smirking like he’d just won something. “You’re welcome. And don’t forget to tell Maria she owes me the title of world’s best babysitter.”
And then he was gone, swallowed by the flood of students, leaving me clutching a cup big enough to drown in and wondering what the hell just happened. Shaking my head but not stupid enough to refuse free caffeinated goodness, I resumed the trudge to class. Just as I stepped inside, met with the blessed rush of cold air, my phone buzzed with an incoming text. I checked it, expecting Maria. It was not.
Jackson: Morning Malibu. Enjoy the coffee?
Me: Stalker. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.
Jackson: Don’t I know it.
What was that supposed to mean?
Me: Aren’t you supposed to be running laps or something?
Jackson: I can take a second to say good morning.
I tried desperately to ignore the butterflies in my belly and frowned at my phone. I typed a response. Deleted it. Typed another. Deleted that too.?
Jackson: Don’t over think it, Malibu. I can see you typing. And I don’t have to imagine it too hard to see that cute, little line you get between your eyebrows when you’re thinking. Have a good day.
My thumb hovered over the screen for a stupidly long time after his dot went gray. I had half a dozen replies drafted—sharp, sarcastic, defensive—and I deleted every single one. Telling him off would be easier. Telling myself off for caring would be easier still. But I couldn’t get the image of him waiting somewhere, rough and impatient and earnest, out of my head. The butterfly thing in my stomach did not care for my dignity.
I shoved the phone into my pocket and stumbled into class, late again. The professor said something about primary sources, and I pretended to take notes while my brain replayed the text like a bad song on loop. I kept checking my phone and eventually realized I was acting utterly pathetic which resulted in me turning it off and shoving it into the bottom of my bag.
The week fell into a rhythm. Jackson’s messages were short but steady. I had come to expect a good morning, and the occasional good night. When I showed Maria the string of simple messages, she had a total fangirl moment and squealed loud enough it woke up Jewel.?
Dalton kept appearing like an inconvenient traffic cone—there when you needed to swerve around, impossible to ignore. Hannah called a couple of nights to make sure I wasn’t dissolving alone, that old-fashioned voice soft around the edges that kept me grounded and focused on the mission. Her words, not mine.?
One night I stayed up until three trying to parse a chemistry problem that might as well have been a riddle written in a cipher. I texted Maria a picture of my scrawl. Her reply was a string of angry emojis and a single sentence.
Maria: Stop making my brain hurt, come over. I’ll feed you until you stop yelling at molecules.
I went.?
Maria’s kitchen was chaos: a loud radio, two pans sizzling, a tiny person in the center of it all who thought splatting into a bowl was the highest form of art. Jewel handed me a soggy tamale and grinned like I was a god for existing. Sure, I visited my parents often. Was starting to look forward to seeing them, which was weird. Almost like I missed them. But this was my happy place. Then it was back to my too quiet apartment and hovering thoughts.
Eventually, I had to admit Dalton wasn’t just a dumb jock. The guy was smart—like weirdly,might actually solve world hunger if he stayed focused long enoughsmart. Most weekends, we holed up in the clubhouse back room, folding chairs and busted tables buried under textbooks and highlighters like the detritus of an academic camping trip.
But the Friday before a big test, Maria pitched a different idea. Hannah volunteered to babysit Jewel, and Maria lit up like someone had handed her a week’s vacation. She wasn’t going to waste it in the clubhouse basement. So we ended up at my apartment.
Dalton stepped inside, whistling low. “You weren’t kidding. This place is bigger than my mom’s kitchen.”
“Behave,” Maria snapped, smacking his arm as she claimed the couch. “She already feels weird about it.”
“I do not,” I lied, dropping my backpack on the coffee table.
Diego came in with a box of snacks like reinforcements, and Mac slipped through the door last, muttering that his dad could handle things for one night. He didn’t say much else, just claimed a chair in the corner—but somehow the whole room shifted quieter, more focused, like his presence set the tempo.
By the time Maria clapped her hands, snacks were spread across the table and half a forest’s worth of flashcards stacked in front of us. “All right. No whining. No excuses. Holly, eyes up. Dalton, stop pretending you know the answer before I even flip the card.”
Dalton smirked, leaning back in his chair. “I do know the answer. It’s always C.”
